Breakdown
by desert grave
Summary: [Wincest] Dean doesn't know how to deal with anything anymore. He can't deny his feelings, but he can learn to repress them for a little while.


Disclaimer: I own no part of Supernatural. However, I believe it should be every woman's right to do whatever they please with Jensen and Jared.

Warning: This is slash and incest. It is rated M for quite a few reasons.Don't like, then don't read. Please.

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**Breakdown**

_Part One - Battles_

Some things are meant to be sacred. The love between two brothers is simply that. It is never meant to be anything more, because anything more would be sacrilage. I wonder however, whether or not there is a god, sometimes. Maybe society just frowns upon it because it's strange - to love a brother more than that.

To love a brother more than a brother.

So, what do I battle with? The fact that, yes, I am a bad person for looking out of the corner of my eye every time he took off his shirt, to gaze at her perfect chest, his immaculate stomach, or the fact that his only love is dead, and all I can think is "good riddance?" Do I even battle with those facts at all? Do I battle with both?

But I have been battling with this my whole life. When he slept, I would watch him. He looked like an angel. A little, innocent angel. I knew he was something more than human then, but I know it more now.

When I was younger, I admired my brother. I never thought that what I felt was love. It wasn't until recently, when we'd begun our search for Dad, it I begin to really realise. As a teen, I had repressed it, leaving my feelings for the magazines I had required along the way.

But seeing Sam fight like that, seeing how much he'd grown - everything popped back up. I tried for months to battle these feelings down. But the more we travelled, the more we fought, and the more we discovered how much we needed each other, the more those feelings would bubble and burst at the top of my brain, leaving this pleasantly numb feeling.

They were wrong. This was my brother - not just another man, but a man of my own blood - and I was madly in love with him. Before long, I would start taking showers that burned my skin until I could smell the roiling flesh. I would rip my hair out in clumps and beat my knuckles on the tiling until the blood washed bright red down the drain. I'd bitten down my tongue so much that there were permanent etches marred in copper. I found myself clenching my fists until the little half-moon marks welled up with that perfect crimson - it gleamed.

I did it because I was scared. Because it was wrong. Brotherly love was supposed to be sacred - and what had I made it?

I was condemned to the bruises, to the bleeding, to the mind-numbingly bad thoughts that just wouldn't disappear, no matter what I did.

_Part Two - Sleep_

The darkness of a hotel room might've brought sancuary, if only he weren't sharing it with me. He tossed and turned every night because he had dreams - dreams of Jessica. I barely moved, stuck in serene insomnia every damn night. If I couldn't even lay there, I'd sit and hold my head in my broken palms. It was so hard to just move anymore - every part of my body hurt. Every joint ached, every blink stung, every breath was strained and compressed. My heartbeat even hurt lately.

In the descrete darkness of this particular hotel room, I could watch the paleness of my brother's white skin breathing beneath the covers. I could see the blood pumping through his veins. I could feel his heartbeat healing mine. It made me sick to my stomach.

So getting up and running to the toilet, I retched. My thinning, slightly bloody hair was slick with sweat, caked in dried fluid flowing out of my skull. I didn't even pay attention to what was in it anymore. I shivered on the cold ceramic floor of the bathroom. I wished that for once, we could get the two bed, and not feel like all eyes were on us. I wished we could share it, that one little twin bed with the itchy, damning covers.

A creak echoed off the floors in the next room. "Dean?" came a throaty, near-silent call. It sent tremors down my spine, and my eyes welled with saline droplets. I retched again. "You okay?" came the voice from behind the door. It was so quiet, so caring. I sighed deeply, wishing. Wanting. I shut the emotion out quickly.

"Just a little sick is all. Be better in the morning." There was silence.

After a few minutes of waiting on the tiles that had soaked up my body heat, I creaked the door open and slugged back to my bed. Sam was curled up - angellic once more.

_Part Three_ _- Driven_

The wind felt good against my face. Sam was driving, and we were looking for a good, cheap pancake house or something for breakfast. I caught him glancing over at my hands - they were quite a sight, after all. Shades of blue and purple and red melting underneath pink, scabbed skin. Brown patches surrounded the knuckles where blood had dried. The itched and stung and pulsed and ached like hell, but I wouldn't change it for the world. It helped keep my mind in check.

"When'd that happen?" he asked. I acted like I wasn't sure what he was talking about. He nodded at my hands while still trying to keep his eyes on the road.

"Last night. Just... got frustrated with the whole vomiting thing. Had to do something. Granted, it was kind of stupid, but I didn't feel sick anymore afterwards," I said, grimacing. I touched the marks gingerly. Sam smiled slightly at me and continued driving as though everything was okay.

Nothing was okay. That smile - it drove me insane. It was pure and loving. He hadn't shaved much lately, and the stubble added an intriguing effect.

I wanted to slap myself for that. For letting a simple facial expression affect me the way it did. Dammit, Sam. Why couldn't you have just stayed away?

But you tried, didn't you? I was the one who needed you back.

_Part Four - Holes_

Back at the hotel room, we had come back from a fresh kill - we'd finished what we had set out to do. The next morning, we could leave this place, and I'd be stuck in a car with him, driving for miles, trying to figure out our next destination. It would be torture, but I could bear it. I lay on the bed, going over some of Dad's notes. Sam was taking a shower.

I could feel the steam rolling out from under the doorframe. It crawled out in wisps and puffs, and left a little water clinging to surfaces and planes. The door was open a slight crack. I wasn't paying attention, I was too busy to care, really. But when the shower turned off, and I heard his wet, dripping foot slap against the all-too-familiar cermaic tile flooring, I pretended not to perk up. My eyes drifted from the leather-bound book, and through that forbidden crack, I could see all I needed to see. Gleaming, watersoaked skin - every inch of it.

Suddenly, my pants were feeling too tight, and my shirt too hot and itchy. I shut my eyes tight and counted backwards from ten, digging my nails into my forearms and waiting for it to go away. But it didn't. There was no calming cool rushing over my body, no loosening of the clothes. My eyes squeezed tighter still and slowly, everything returned to normal. My crotch ached, which was normal. It wanted something that I couldn't give it.

That night, as I laid awake, and Sam in a dream-filled stupor, I stared at the ceiling. It was dark, he was alseep. I could sneak in to the bathroom and rub until that craving was satsified. The thought made me sick to my stomach, but my libido was craving that gorgeously toned, tall, limber body. I couldn't go through with staying there all night.

But how guilty would I feel if I went through with it?

So instead, I cleched the covers around me and wished for these feelings to go away. As though they would, like in some fairy tale, I wished them away. That held me over for a while. But soon, I found myself pacing softly on the wooden bedroom floor. I glanced over at his sleeping body from time to time. He looked like a fairy tale prince. So maybe this was a fairy tale. Maybe if I tried hard enough, they would just disappear.

Unwittingly, I was at his bed. I wanted to just say it. Sam, I love you. Just say it. Whisper it. Mouth it. He doesn't even have to hear it, just admit it to yourself. YOU LOVE HIM, DAMMIT. I couldn't do anything. I just sat there, staring at his troubled face. He was having another nightmare.

Before I could do anything, I bent over and brushed my lips against his. It was only for a mere millisecond, and he didn't even stir - but when I pulled back, his face seemed calmer, quieter.

And then I'd realised what I'd done.

I rushed out of the room, I had to get out. The car. The car was good. I couldn't make it to the car. The full throttle fact was jumping into my body like a punch to the face. I collapsed at the trunk. It hurt, so much. My gut felt as though I'd downed a whole bottle of ipecac. My head felt like I'd downed an entire bottle of Jager. My limbs felt weighted down. The tears stung my face, burned. Why did this have to happen to me? Why did I have to feel this pain?

I thought of a better way to ward it off. I just had to reach into my pocket and get the keys. I just had to open the trunk, open the latch, open the box. There it would be, glistening, pure. Metallic. Cold steel release against the vein of my wrist. Blood trickled between my fingers and I felt all the shame, all the self-loathing, all the sickness wash away. I felt high and free. Then my wrist started to die out and the pain sunk in.

One more cut - one more cut and all the badness would go away, replaced by the quickest pain I knew. One more line of crimson on my arm and I'd be right as rain. One more.

_Part Five_ _- Sin_

My whole body was numb. How much blood had I lost? I woke up to bright lights against the cool blackness of sleep. Sleep. I had slept for the first time in what seemed like weeks. Sam was sitting on his bed. He was holding something. I muttered something and sat up, causing Sam to quickly pocket whatever it was he had. "Morning," he said cheerfully. Something was happening behind his eyes - they weren't as bright as the rest of his face. They looked sunken and dead. I only wondered how I looked. "Shower," I said, practically leaping into the bathroom.

The running water washed everything away - the dried blood, the baked-on sweat and dirt and self-hatred. All gone. I felt nothing anymore. Only two dull purple marks remained on my inner right arm. When I got out of the shower, I quickly bandaged them, then put on a long-sleeved teeshirt.

The day of driving flew by. We found our next town easily enough, and talked only shop the entire way there. I had forgotten about Sam's emptiness that morning while we rented out a room - two twins - and threw ourselves inside. It was beginning to get dark as we were settling in, talking only about what needed to be talked about.

In the closing darkness, with Sam sitting in a chair going over Dad's notes, the longing began to creep up in my mind. My blood rushed through my veins, waiting for that sweet release. I knew what I had to do - I knew it was the only way to stop from thinking like this. I just had to wait until Sam was asleep. I was beginning to fall into a restless doze when Sam surprised me by sitting at the edge of the bed. Only one light was on in the whole room, and there were no lights coming from outside. "What's up, Sammy?" I asked, sitting up to face his back.

"What are you doing to yourself, Dean?" he asked me. He didn't look at me at all.

"What? What are you talking about?" I stammered. I didn't know what he knew - but I was about to find out. "Seriously? What do you mean?" I asked to his silence. Instead of saying anything, he pulled a small, sheathed hunting knife out from his back pocket. He tossed it into my lap without even so much as looking at me. "What's that?" I tried to say it without letting anything slip through my voice.

"I found it under your pillow this morning." He turned to me suddenly and pulled my sleeve up. "And then I found those." He brought his eyes to focus on mine, and I broke contact. "Dean..." he said, gripping my hand. My cold, broken, bruised, and bloody hand. It was a soft grip, making sure I didn't get hurt in the process. "What is going on?"

"Nothing," I said, without any emotion in my voice at all. I couldn't let him in - not now. I was almost pushing him out of my head.

"Don't feed me that shit, Dean. I know better than that. You're my brother - I know when something's bothering you. I could tell even before this happened. I could tell when those bruises started showing up on you. I could tell when bits of your hair started mysteriously disappearing off of your head. I could tell when you stopped eating anything. I could tell when you started getting sick every other week. Did you honestly think I wouldn't notice?" He said it with so much concern, it hurt. My heart hurt, it was weighed down with too many tears, too much blood. "Why? Why are you doing this to yourself?"

"Because, it's the only thing I can do," I muttered, my eyes focus on the badly-made comforter on which we sat. "Its the only thing I know how to do."

"What is happening?" he asked, trying so hard not to make this about himself.

"There's nothing I'm doing that you would understand," I shouted. I didn't mean to shout. He jumped back slightly and glared at me. "All this time, you've just been flaunting it. Taunting me. I can't go through with it anymore, Sam. I can't." I got up and reached for the door, but Sam was too quick for me. He had only recently become the stronger one, and he was able to throw me, as gently as possible, to the wall.

"You don't get to walk away, Dean. You need help. I need you to talk to me. And don't tell me 'you wouldn't understand.' It doesn't work that way." He was too close to me. He was too caring. I was too broken. I was shattering, shattering, shattering. "So please," he whispered. "Please. Talk to me." His teeth were gritted so tightly, I couldn't even hear him. And I burst.

"I can't do this! I can't sit here every night pretending that you're just my brother. I can't. Because I know it isn't true. I know it. It can't be true. If we were brothers I wouldn't feel this way. I wouldn't look and you and go crazy. I wouldn't spasm every time you fucking touched me, but I do. I can't stop it. I couldn't stop it. But I could slow it down. So I did. I slowed it down and look what it's gotten me. It hasn't got me anything, because you still ignore me and I'm still in love with you. All it adds now is more anger, more pain. I just want it to end, Sammy. I want it to end."

He stepped back, eyes wide. He looked destroyed. How could I put him through this? He didn't say anything, but his eyes stayed wide - doe eyes. He was caught in the headlights, and I was about to crash, taking him down with me. I couldn't see properly through tears, everything was blurred and the taste of copper was covering my mouth as I bit down on my tongue again. He turned away and I slunk back, ashamed. I tried to sneak out, away from him. I thought he'd never want to see me again, let alone be my brother. Before I could move completely, I grabbed my clean wrist. "How long?" he asked me, voice raspy and dead. I couldn't say anything. "How long have..." he started, shouting at me. He stopped mid-sentence and dropped my wrist, disgusted.

"This... this is why. I couldn't tell you. I couldn't even admit it to myself. So I shoved it back. And this was the outcome," I said, unwrapping my mottled, bloody wrist. It was ugly now - it had seemed so precious this morning. Sam recoiled. "You did this to me," I muttered angrily. "It was all you. You had to be perfect everyday, untouchable. Sacred. You taunted me," I said, my voice straining to get to his ears. "Please, just let me go," I begged. My body was screaming to walk out of there now. I needed him to let me go. "End this goddamn spell you cast, and let me go. Sam, just let me go." He shoved himself out of my line of sight, he was bretahing so heavily. So I picked up the knife. "Let me go," I begged, brandishing the knife against myself. "I can't take it anymore, Sammy." He finally looked at me, and all the pain I was feeling rushed into me twofold. He felt it too.

The knife fell. We took baby steps, and soon we were within milimetres of each other. He placed his hands gently on my shoulders, feeling my withering bones beneath his warm, tender hands. I looked up into his eyes, and he caught me in this deep, weathering kiss. It made all the blood pump into my lips, made them bruise. The blood from my cut tongue mixed with his sweet saliva in a deep, hard, open-mouthed kiss. This was nothing like kissing a girl. It was hard and it was fast and it was rough and it was tender and it was everything I had been searching for. I pulled my arms around his neck, trying to pull him closer to me, my bleeding tongue searching frantically through his mouth. His soft hands grasped hard at my ribs, my spine, my shoulderblades, looking for something. All the passion of the past 22 years was boiling to the surface in an immaculate, painful, needy kiss. He pushed away, turning his back. The backside of his hand rubbed against his mouth. I saw a little droplet of blood on the back of it. I had bit his lip - hard. It bled the way my tongue had. I spit a little mixture of saliva and tears and blood out onto the grainy rug.

The next thing I knew, Sam was unbuckling his belt and turning back to me. I caught his mouth, and searching the chasm, tantalized. He undid my belt and shoved my jeans down so that I stood there, in my underwear. He pulled his off slowly, not breaking the kiss as he stepped out of them. My shirt was already half off from the first encounter, he just had to pull it off the rest of the way, all while knocking me onto the bed. I shook my head and grabbed his hair, pulling tightly. My scalp was tender for months - I wanted him to feel it too. I pushed him back and got of the bed. His shirt went up over his head, and I gnawed at the naked flesh of his collar bone. He bit back a scream of pain and pleasure, hatred and desire. He pulled me back up to meet his mouth, tugging at my hair. I let my hands grab his ass as tightly as I knew I could, letting him feel my pain. He turned me around and shoved me to the ground, so hard that my knees would've shattered had I let them. Next I knew, the thin cloth of my boxers was resting at my knees and one of Sam's hands - no longer tender - was grapsing my shoulder, letting his fingers dig in, as the other fumbled with the top of his boxers.

Then there was the rush. A deep, tingling feeling. Something long and hard and hot shoved into my body and it felt like all the world was being lifted off of my shoulders in that one moment. Our hearts beat together, and it no longer hurt.

_Part Six - Redemption_

The morning light was not condemning, nor was it judgemental. It was loving, it was beautiful. My arms and legs were entangled with the longer limbs of my younger brother. Scratches and bruises and specks of blood covered my entire body - and for once, most of it was not my own doing. Sam's breath was warm and welcoming on the nape of my neck, his abdomen pressed firmly against my back, his arms wrapped protectivly around my neck. All I had to do was lay there, and let it sink in. If this wasn't sacred, I didn't know what was.


End file.
